


Lost Stories: Batuu Arc

by Boggy



Series: The Mandalorian - Lost Stories [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Healthy Relationships, Mandomera Heavy, Married Life, Omera Has Her Hands Full, Possible Outcome Story, Post-Canon, Romance, Socially Stunted Din, Winta is Adorable, ex-Mandalorian Din, father-daughter bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29785122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boggy/pseuds/Boggy
Summary: Din has absconded with his new wife and child to the seedy slughole of Batuu.  Creed abandoned, he now lives life as a "normal man," working to make ends meet while sidestepping the remnants of an embarrassed Empire seeking vengeance for the loss of their Moff.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Original Character(s), Din Djarin & Winta, Din Djarin/Omera
Series: The Mandalorian - Lost Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189298
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Lost Stories: Batuu Arc

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve decided to expand the “Lost Stories” family by chronicling the tales of Din and Omera’s “early years,” just shortly after the series’ “potential end.” This story, which pilots the “Batuu Arc,” takes place some 15-20 years prior to [Lost Stories of the Outer Rim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467375). Bear in mind, you can easily read one without reading the other. ALL my Mandalorian works are interconnected stories (excluding AU), but they are written to work/read as standalone fics. 
> 
> It’s important to note, this story does NOT acknowledge ANY of the plot/happenings of _The Mandalorian_ Season 2. There was a noticeable shift in tone/direction of the show starting Episode 9, so please understand that the _Lost Stories_ universe is written as a continuation from the canon/plot established in the first 8 episodes of Season 1. There is no Boba or Ahsoka or Bo-Katan or any of the nonsense over fighting for the throne of Mandalore in this fic. The only “consistency” between my story and the events of Season 2 is that The Child is no longer in the care of Din, but in the hands/care of the Jedi, where he belongs. That, to me, was always the most logical outcome/conclusion (both for the show, and for Din’s relationship with the alien babe). _This_ story focuses on the aftermath of Din’s “quest,” his attempt at “living life” after his disillusionment with the Creed, and his efforts to keep himself and his new wife and child safe from the remnants of the Empire seeking vengeance for Din’s killing of the Moff.
> 
> My one-shot story, [Worship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23539876/chapters/56462320), precludes this work, if you were interested in reading what happens between the series’ “end” and the events of Batuu. 
> 
> Thanks very much for reading. :)))

**Chapter 1 - Speed**

Galma wasn't the most _family-friendly_ of settlements. But for a man looking to lay low—with a wife and young child in tow—it was sanctuary.

The town was small, underdeveloped, probably only one to two shades above "backwater" on the civilization scale, thanks to its reliance on scrap, mechanics, and the technological resourcefulness of its natives. Housing was fair. What you couldn't buy you could, with the proper materials and skillset, build. The people lived by self-made, self-governed rules. Hell, Galma was famous for its illegal droid battling. Then again, given the _well-known_ criminal element on Batuu, podracing and droid fights were part and parcel of life.

Din had "settled" there with the girls in the hopes of sidestepping the remnants of Gideon's goons (and any potential reinforcements the Empire felt generous enough to loan them). Batuu was a haven for smugglers, thieves, slave traders—anyone looking to avoid drawing too many eyes. Thankfully, the worst of it was confined to BSO. Galma was, more or less, everyday people living everyday lives. Men feeding families. Women tending kids. Many of the town's inhabitants commuted to Black Spire for work—Din included. He boarded the depot shuttle at dawn, scavenged the outpost for scrap and helped build transports during the day, then boarded the shuttle again for the return trip home at night. The money he earned bought supplies, paid for their apartment housing, kept himself and the girls fed, and whatever credits remained he stashed away for the day they had finances enough to leave Batuu and Galma for good.

It pained him thinking of what Omera and Winta had left behind—the scenic wildflowers, the friendlier neighbors, the fresher air. But with his situation what it was, Din flat refused putting Sorgan at risk. And Omera flat refused him speeding off into space without her. She'd insisted they make do, and Din hadn't had the emotional willpower at the time to say no.

The loss of The Child cut. He...hadn't been well when he'd come stumbling back, Gideon dead and the alien babe in the hands of the Jedi—where he belonged. Omera was the only comfort he'd known, both before and since coming into possession of The Child. He'd wanted—no _needed_ —Omera's support.

And she'd given it freely.

Now they lived in the heart of Galma, their home one of many in the large, spired complex at the center of the city. He brought home the credits while Omera kept house. And she saw Winta off in the mornings to the community school hall, her left hand encasing Winta's and her right a trusty DL-18 Blaster. The sector was safe enough, but Din hated the idea of _beautiful Omera—_ or beautiful Omera and little Winta—traipsing the streets of Galma, exposed and alone.

But there was nothing for it. He _had_ to work, and push come to shove, Omera _could_ defend herself. It enraged him that she should even _have_ to, but such was life. Perhaps one day they would live somewhere _nice_ , the kind of city where he _knew_ his children would be safe: a place of their _own_ design, to determine their own fate, make their own rules—somewhere bright, colorful, and free…

For now, it was the scrap-filled alleyways of Galma. It wasn't ideal. It wasn't glamorous. But it was home. It was a place to come back to. It was a pretty girl to nestle with at night. It was a child who he'd come to cherish as his own. And it was a promise. A promise to love, to protect, to fight for a future beyond that of a seedy slughole like Batuu.

A promise to _live_.

On a normal day, Din woke at first light, begrudgingly unfurled himself from the very soft, _very_ inviting warmth of Omera's body, ran himself through the fresher, peeked in on Winta's still-sleeping form, and swaggered himself off to the depot for work. Today, however, had brought the arrival of a highly anticipated podracing event that had halted the shuttle into BSO, closed the work camps, and opened the gambling arena to the general public. The city had essentially "shut down" in honor of the race. And he imagined most of the men's earnings from Black Spire would be well and wasted by the day's end. Din had lost count of the number of workers who toiled at the scrap camps to pay off debts incurred from bad bets at the games.

A fool's errand, by all accounts. But far be it from him to tell anyone how to spend their credits.

The medical center was open; so was school. As with most modest settlements, the instructors were droids. And while children were not explicitly "forbidden" from the games, most parents—mothers especially—preferred it if their children kept to lessons and left the racing and betting to the adults.

Winta had been none too happy to hear _that_.

She'd sulked the night before and grumbled through their morning meal, insisting it "wasn't fair" that "grown-ups got the day off," but kids didn't. Omera was sympathetic, and for his part, Din hadn't the heart to rebuke her. He had rather Winta stayed home as well. It wasn't often their little family had a whole day to "be together." Nevermind he just didn't think very much of the "games." (In his opinion, it was a ridiculous excuse to shut down the city.)

With the shuttle closed, Din offered to walk Winta to the school hall in Omera's stead. By the time they arrived, she'd quieted down, breathing a small but disappointed sigh, eyes fixed firmly on her feet. He'd bent down, lifting her chin and promising they would do something, just the three of them, soon. She'd brightened at his words, flashing a happy smile and shyly wrapping her arms around his neck. And he'd held her, longer than he'd needed to, channeling every apology, every ounce of remorse he could into that single embrace, body racked with guilt not just over the day, but her loss of friends, her krill ponds, the uncomplicated existence he'd pulled her from since the day he'd landed on Sorgan and uprooted her and her mother's idyllic life.

Winta had bounced into the schoolhouse with a parting wave, and he wondered what, in all his years of bounty hunting and violence, he had done to earn the unwavering trust of such an innocent being. It brought his thoughts circling back to The Child, who up until not so very long before had looked at and held him with that same childish trust.

He'd turned away quickly to keep the bile from spilling up out of his throat.

On shaky legs, Din made the return trek to his and Omera's flat, reminding himself the whole way to _just breathe_. He'd seen and experienced _more_ than his fair share of misery through the years, but the past few months had been a definite tipping point. Between the loss of honored friends, the destruction of his covert, his growing disillusionment with the Creed, and finally his surrendering of The Child to the Jedi—he'd had _enough_.

He'd been given an opportunity to "walk away." And he'd taken it.

But memory wasn't so easy to escape. Before he could shoot off into the unknown, wear himself out with work, justify his behavior with providing for the tribe. Not so as a man on the run, the kindness of Omera's eyes trailing him from every corner of their home, and Winta's excited energy as she recounted all the "cool things" she'd seen during their travels in space. Sometimes the weight of it all was too much. But he'd resolved _not_ to be a burden to his family. Omera deserved more than a man crippled by the ills of his past. Winta too.

Din lived as a "normal man" now. And he treasured it. Like clasping that final piece of armor in place, he felt whole. _Complete_. He didn't "regret" his life—not all of it, anyway—but there _were_ moments he took... _less pride in_ than others. There would always be a war between what he was and what he had been. The ex-Mandalorian wasn't so sure he could ever fully reconcile the two.

In the meantime, he kept reciting over and over in his head— _just breathe_.

His wife—nearly two months into marriage and the word still sent a thrill down his spine—was waiting for him when he walked in, standing in the kitchen near the presently unlit nanowave stove. He nearly tripped staring as he closed the door behind him and stepped inside.

"Din!"

The sound of his name sent another tidal wave of shocks spider-webbing down and across his back. It had been uttered more the last few years than the whole of his life, yet it was from the lips of Omera that the name felt truly _his_. As if in her presence alone could he be unashamedly himself.

Not a Mandalorian. Or a bounty hunter. Or even a father.

Just a man.

Oh the freedom he felt in being _just a man_.

"I was getting a little anxious," she smoothed her hands along the front of her dress. "I hope Winta didn't give you too much trouble."

Din shook his head. "She's okay." Then he added, "I would have rather she stayed home too."

Since getting married he'd made a conscious effort to be more forthcoming in his conversations. He hadn't had much practice "talking" all alone on the Crest. And most of his babblings with The Child had been largely one-sided.

"We'll make it up," she closed the distance between them with a smile, hands coming to rest at either side of his chest.

His fingers covered hers in an instant.

"And I'll have a snack waiting for her when she comes home."

Din nodded, dragging his fingers up and down the backs of her knuckles and nails, listening but _not completely_ listening as he drank in the warmth of her eyes, the dark tendrils of her hair, the soft curve of her neck.

And her _skin_.

To _feel_ a person's touch with his bare hands was... _kill him with a krill shell_. The sensation still unglued him, no matter how many times he trailed the dips and curves of Omera's slight frame. He very often found himself lost in the moment of just holding her close—usually to a choir of Winta's girlish giggles. (Thankfully, she'd only ever "caught them" in an "innocent" embrace. He wasn't sure _what_ he'd do if ever she walked in on one of their more "compromising" interludes.)

"Din?"

He hummed a distracted _something_ , tilting his head forward to massage the tips of her fingers still splayed across his upper chest. She smiled prettily at the affectionate touch, head shaking as he continued his assault on her digits with his chin.

"And what were your plans for me today, dear husband?" a knowing in her voice suggesting she understood _precisely_ where things were headed.

The ex-Mandalorian hummed again, this time bringing both her hands to rest against the sides of his face before nuzzling them with his nose and cheeks.

"Plans?" he questioned, eyes closed as he brought her pointer to his lips.

More nuzzling.

"Plans…" he muttered on, swept up in the softness of her.

He coaxed a second finger to his mouth.

_Plans?_

The word echoing in his brain, a sliver of clarity broke through his love drunk fog.

...Plans. Plans!

_That's right!_

He remembered now.

Tenderly, and with a reverent peck to either palm, Din brought Omera's hands back to rest once more against the front of his chest.

"Think you could pack us a lunch?"

Her eyes shot to the ceiling at his abrupt shift in mood. "Lunch?"

Leaning forward to nudge her forehead with his own, he hummed yet again.

"I think I can manage," she recovered with a laugh, nudging back.

He sealed his appreciation with a kiss.

* * *

A run through the fresher each—and with a quick tidying up of their humble abode—Din and Omera left the housing complex hand-in-hand, feeling for all the galaxy like adolescents and _not_ the late thirty, early forty-somethings that they were. She laughed as he tugged her along, his naturally boyish features all the more amplified by a lopsided grin and an enthusiastic tug of her arm. She hadn't the faintest where they were headed. Her priority was keeping stride with the excitable ex-Mandalorian half-galloping down the main thoroughfare of Galma's dingy city streets.

It was a quick trek. Most everyone in Galma was either at or on their way to the games, so the walkways were clear, save for a few maintenance droids sweeping up throwaway scrap. Having lived so long in the wide open spaces of Sorgan, Omera appreciated the lack of crowd.

Just as they were reaching the end of the strip, Din slowed to a halt. Hands interlocked, he guided his wife to a parts supply store marked _Two-stop Tulley_ , where he proceeded to punch in the access code to a storage bunker adjoining the shop. Omera puzzled—how was it he knew the combination to the keypad?—but settled when he squeezed her hand and tossed her a knowing smile.

"The owner's a...friend."

It wasn't a lie. Just a few weeks after they'd arrived on-planet, Din had "come to the rescue" of the supply store owner, "Tulley," after a thief had sideswiped security and broken into the shop. It had been early morning, on his way to work, when the thief had forced entry, taken credits from the money box, and made a run for it down the strip alongside the walkway near the ex-Mandalorian's house. Tulley, an Ugnaught, hadn't a chance of catching the faster, lither Twi'lek speeding down the path and Din, compelled to assist, made quick work of dispatching the combat inexperienced, small-time crook. He'd reclaimed the stolen funds, hoisted the dizzy Twi'lek to her feet, returned the credits to their rightful owner, and hauled the robber off to jail.

To say the Ugnaught was "appreciative" was an understatement. He'd shook Din's hand, thanking him over and over, asking if there was anything Din needed or wanted from the shop, and offering his mechanical services in whatever capacity he could. Din had flushed red at the fuss—especially as the little man had hailed him a hero up and down the streets—assuring him it was fine and promising to stop in sometime to peruse the older man's wares (at Tulley's insistence).

In truth, Din was just grateful knowing the thief was off the streets and in the detention center where she belonged. He shuddered at the idea of Omera and Winta wandering the alleyways of Galma with criminals on the loose. Especially ones plundering not two-hundred meters from his own backyard.

Besides that, he'd developed a bit of a... _distaste_ for Twi'leks over the years. Their kind were _always_ at the heart of _unsavory pastimes_ , in his experience. The more distance he put between them and his family, the better.

He'd mentioned not a word of the shoplift to Omera, partly because it had well and truly been _no big deal_ , but mostly because he didn't want her to worry—for him, or for herself and Winta. Galma was temporary, and they'd be shooting off into orbit the first opportunity Din could find. But he wanted Omera and Winta "happy," or as close as could be managed, until they did. Omera wasn't _completely_ naive, but Din understood the underworld better than she. And some of the "realities" of their situation were just better left unsaid.

Din gave his wife's hand another squeeze as the panel mechanisms whirred and the hatch raised to reveal a well-maintained, Imperial speederbike parked smack-dab in the middle of the hold. It was a beautiful thing—by Din's estimation, anyway. In the handful of trips he'd made to Tulley's shop, it had never once failed to catch his eye. And he'd be lying if he said he wasn't _itching_ to take both the bike and Omera out for a spin. He snuck a peek at his wife's face, trying to gauge her reaction as she stared with silent wonder, curious gaze trailing over the bike, mouth parted slightly in such a way that sent auspicious nerves racing up and down his spine.

He _really_ wanted her to like it.

"Is this yours?" she asked, almost breathless.

"Tulley's," he said with a smile.

"You...rented it, then?"

"More or less."

After the big podracing event got announced, and Din realized he and Omera would have the day to themselves, he'd approached Tulley with the hopes of chartering his shop's speederbike for use during the games. Except Tulley would hear none of it, and insisted he simply _take_ the bike—for the day—no charge. Din would have rather thrown a little business the Ugnaught's way than bum a ride for _free._ But before he could make an argument for it, Tulley had slipped a flimsi in his hand with the access code for the hold's control panel and shooed him out the door.

"So how about it?"

Omera's head jerked sideways, her brown eyes wide.

"Wanna ride?"

Lip between teeth, Omera nodded, her free hand splayed disbelievingly across her lips as Din pulled her to the bike. He boarded first, swinging their daypack and one leg over the seat before gesturing his girl—brain spinning with the realization that Omera was, in fact, _his girl_ —onboard with a smirk. A moment's hesitation, and then she hoisted herself up, joining him from behind and scooching herself forward to sit flush against his shoulders and back. Din felt her arms encircle his waist and the heat of her body through the fabric of her dress. Every nerve-ending stood on end. And he knew in that moment that every life-threatening ordeal, every stupid decision he'd made, even the painful loss of The Child he'd do, again, ten times over, if only he could exist in a world with Omera's body fused against his own.

"You ready?"

Once more, he felt her nod of consent as Omera's head found purchase in the crook of his neck. With a steadying breath, Din cranked the handles, powering the speederbike on and giving her just enough gas to clear the threshold of the hatch. He brought them round, punching the command panel to secure the hold before angling his head to peck at his wife's cheek.

"Hang on."

A rev of the engine, a nervous squeal, and they were off.


End file.
